Welcome to my favourite This Is How You Lose The Time War quotes

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Tell me something true, or tell me nothing at all

So in this letter I am yours. Not Garden’s, not your mission’s, but yours, alone. I am yours in other ways as well: yours as I watch the world for your signs, apophenic as a haruspex; yours as I debate methods, motives, chances of delivery; yours as I review your words by their sequence, their sound, smell, taste, taking care no one memory of them becomes too worn. Yours.

Every evening I see a red sky bleed over blue water and think of us. Have you ever watched this kind of sunset? The colours don’t blend: the redder the sky the bluer the water, as we tilt away from the Sun.

It’s mine. I am careful with what belongs to me. Few things do, you know—belong to me.

We can make tea together, trade books, report home sanitised accounts to each other’s doings. I think I’d still write letters, even then.

Garden seems to like roots, and this book roots in rootlessness. Are you a tumbleweed, then? A dandelion seed?

You are yourself, and so remain, as I remain.

I want to tell you something about myself. Something true, or nothing at all.

My appetites, that being flooded with garden can’t seem to sate. You, though, Red—

I stand at cliffs edge and—hell. I love you, Blue. Have I always? Haven’t I?

Flowers grow far away on a planet they’ll call Cephalus, and these flowers bloom once a century, when the living star and it’s black-hole binary enter conjunction. I want to fix you a bouquet of them, gathered across eight hundred thousand years, so you can draw a whole engagement in a single breath, all the ages we’ve shaped together.

Firefighter and fire starter

Words hurt, but metaphors go between, like bridges, and words are like stone to build bridges

Your letter lives inside me in the most literal way possible.

I want flowers from Cephalus and diamonds from Neptune, I want to scorched thousand earths between us to see what blooms from the ash, so we can discover it hand in hand

PS. I write to you in stings, Red, but this is me, the truth of me, as I do so: broken open by the act, in the palm of your hand, dying

I want to meet you in every place I ever loved. Listen to me. I am your echo. I would rather break the world than lose you.

What shall I do, sky? Lake, what? Bluebird, iris, ultramarine, how can there be more when this is done? But it will never end—that’s the answer. There is always us

Dearest, deepest blue—
At the end as the start, and through all the in-betweens, I love you.
Red

Thank you, Red. It was a hell of a ride. Take care my yew berry, my wild cherry, my foxglove.
Yours,
Blue

It wasn’t hard. Truth be told, Red—
not reading your letter was harder.

But I’m greedy, Red. I wanted the last word as well as the first.

But maybe this is how we win, Red.
You and me.
This is how we win.